


Nothing Left to Save

by rubycrowned



Category: 1D - Fandom, One Direction, One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst, M/M, larry stylinson - Freeform, lourry, side stymshaw
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-17
Updated: 2012-09-17
Packaged: 2017-11-14 11:43:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/514864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rubycrowned/pseuds/rubycrowned
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Oh the truth hurts, and lies worse. How can I give anymore? When I love you a little less than before.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nothing Left to Save

**Author's Note:**

> um painful hyperreal fic to mark the first thing i've written in about 2 weeks which, lbr, is pretty much a record since probably pre-APTR times tbh. inspired by 'broken strings'. unbeta'd (srsly i wrote this in an hour so). have fun...

Zayn had once warned Harry that he and Louis were like a house on fire. They burned bright and dramatic, swallowing up your heart and soul. But they also burned fast, and when all that remained was char and ash, almost everything you once held dear would be ruined beyond identity; everything that remained forever marred by the scorch of the flames.

Harry preferred to consider them like the sun; flames, yes, but burning brighter and hotter than anything else conceivable. He knew that even the sun wasn’t permanent, that one day it would expand and die. But when the  _sun_  burned out, it would be the end of everything; of the world, of what might as well be the universe from Harry’s point of view. It would take so long, would occur so far in the future, and when it did it would encompass everything, leaving nothing behind, not even the ghost of a memory. It would only end with death. And there was no escaping that, for anyone. So why worry about it now.

Harry was an optimist.

Zayn was the realist.

***

Harry doesn’t know when it happened, but one day he looks at Louis from across the table and doesn’t recognise the man in front of him.

It isn’t in anything particularly obvious; not in the way that Louis’ new hairstyle is swept back from his forehead into a quiff, or even the slight downturn of his lips as he types out a message on his phone.

It might be in the way his jaw is set, in a way it never used to be.

Or the way that the message is probably to Eleanor, a conversation of friendly affection more likely than one of necessity.

It might be in the uneasiness that seems to hang in the air between them now, that Harry can’t remember having existed before; which he didn’t know how to deal with because  _HarryandLouis_  had never had spaces between them which ever needed to be filled.

Or it might be in the way that they seemed to be filling those spaces more and more often with sharp looks and sharper words; tearing at each other with invisible cuts instead of branding their skin with whispered secrets and passionate touches.

In the way that even the barbed comments lacked passion now.

Or – maybe – it’s in the way that Harry’s voice catches in his throat as he tries to utter his simple morning greeting.  _Morning, love._

***

If there’s one thing Harry can’t stand, its lies.

Lies corrupt everything one way or another, this was something he was sure of.

He had persuaded himself over the past couple years that there is a difference between a lie and a half-truth. He had needed to because otherwise how else could he live the life he did.

Harry avoided lying wherever possible, and tried to let truths lay themselves bare in other ways, to balance out the niggles of guilt at his conscience. He let home be a safe haven, where nothing was hidden and everything was free.

But then he turned and everything around him seemed to be just that. His entire life, dust and gaping cracks, hiding behind a façade of smiles and lies which Harry suddenly realised he couldn’t quite make himself believe anymore.

***

_The difference between doing something and not doing something is doing something._

***

When they win their third VMA of the night, Harry’s first instinct is still, after everything, to hold Louis closer than possible, to imprint him onto his skin for the briefest of moments, in the hope that the impression might stick, become another of his tattoos if only he could hold him tight enough.

The difference was that – this time – instead of taking in the feeling, making sure that he could remember this until the next time they were alone, allowed to touch, be free, it was a different type of embrace all together.

It was a goodbye.

***

The raging fire that was  _HarryandLouis_  finally smouldered out in LA, sometime between the others leaving them alone in the hotel – Liam heading away with Danielle for a break while Niall and Zayn headed home – and Louis closing the door behind him as he left to meet Eleanor for their own holiday.

It didn’t have much heat left in it by the end.

There wasn’t much left to say. Not really.

Harry couldn’t lie anymore, couldn’t try and hold onto the ruins which kept crumbling through his fingers.

And Louis, when it came down to it, knew that their hearts weren’t in it anymore, had to agree that the lies which he had always believed protected them, were finally hurting them more than the truth ever could. And that the truth was no longer the same as the one which they had been trying to protect.

***

Even ashes still spark occasionally.

Neither of them really expected for that to be the end of it; that some of that unbearable heat between them wouldn’t flare up at unexpected moments, remind them of what once was.

But neither expected for it to hurt so much when it did. That it could still scald them.

***

Harry drops his bags at his feet as he bangs on the door of the familiar apartment door.

The memory of his computer screen still burned his retinas even as he blinked away the wetness from his eyes ( _Hows this, Larry is the biggest load of bullshit I’ve ever heard. I’m happy why can’t you accept that_ ).

It’s been over a week since the awards, and Harry knows – knows on some deep level – that the words were typed in fire and frustration; that they weren’t supposed to be a hot poker to Harry’s heart, belittling everything they ever were (and Harry foolishly hopes they still are) to each other.

But it doesn’t stop him falling into Nick’s arms when he opens the door, who makes soothing hushing noises into Harry’s tangled hair while Harry seeps tears and snot into Nick’s shirt; he falls asleep hours later, exhausted, long limbs wrapped around Nick on the sofa like an anchor.

Whether its Nick keeping Harry grounded or Harry pulling Nick under, it’s hard to tell.

Maybe a bit of both.

***

Maybe Zayn was right all along.

Maybe everything is warped and decayed, mutilated into an everlasting memory of the fire which caused such destruction in the lives of those who called the house home.

Maybe there will be things lost in the flames which can’t ever be recovered or replaced.

But maybe.

Just maybe.

Maybe that means that the sun is still hanging in the sky, shedding light on the world one day at a time.

***

**Author's Note:**

> is that stymshaw making an appearance at the end there? (yes. yes it is. i cry. it's my happy place now) also i'm probs gonna steer clear of lourry now until things aren't so painful and focus on ziam (maybe some dedicated stymshaw if i get bored). AND in case my absence lately hasn't made it obvious, i'm into study now and not writing as frequently because super tired at the end of the day. but still, keep an eye out :)


End file.
